


Comparing Paws

by Bloodsbane



Category: Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Disregard for Personal Space, Family Bonding, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Humor, Manhandling, figuring out boundaries, headcanons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2020-01-31 13:56:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18592633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bloodsbane/pseuds/Bloodsbane
Summary: Snufkin meets his father for the first time, and the two try to figure out what to do with each other.





	Comparing Paws

**Author's Note:**

> I've been wanting to write something with Snufkin and Joxter for a while now, because I find their relationship hilarious??? To me, the idea of Joxter not knowing he had a son and figuring it out years after the fact is comedy gold to me. It's really hard for me to give two hecks or a darn about father-child relationships in media, but this one is amusing, and so I must write father/son shenanigans...
> 
> Some notes!
> 
> 1) As with my other fics, Snufkin (and Joxter) are called mumriks, which is their species. 
> 
> 2) This fic is mostly just an excuse to explore some headcanons relating to mumriks, and the differences between Joxter and Snufkin. 
> 
> 3) (and minor Content Warning I suppose?) I want to mention ahead of time that Joxter is... kind of weird. I personally imagine him as the sort of guy who has very few manners and not much regard for personal boundaries unless they're explicitly laid out. In the fic he gets in Snufkin's personal space a lot, manhandling him a bit and making Snufkin uncomfortable. I just want to say Snufkin does put his foot down relatively quickly, and they come to a better understanding of what's acceptable. This isn't Joxter trying to be malicious or anything, he just doesn't know how to behave, and isn't sure what he's allowed to do as a father. He may not appear nervous in this, but he's just as frazzled/curious as Snufkin is, I assure you, hah.

When Joxter came by Moomin House to help fix something for Pappa, he had stared at Snufkin for just a moment before shaking his head. Biting the end of his pipe quite violently, he grumbled, “I am going to maim that mighty foolish Mymble.” Then he came over to formally introduce himself to his son. **  
**

Truth be told, it took a bit of convincing; Snufkin was reluctant to believe it. Of course he'd known in some nebulous way he had come from  _someplace,_ created by two someones. That part of Snufkin's life was long gone from his memory, though. He had always been alone.

In the end, there could be little denying it. Joxter was quick to describe his brief relationship with the Matron Mymble, and it coincided with Snufkin's age roughly. Pappa admitted he had always suspected, but figured Snufkin had known.

“That creature is so forgetful,” Joxter said, his voice low and slow, like the shadow of a cloud crawling over an open plain. “I'm not surprised. Most likely she's left children all over. Like breadcrumbs.”

Snufkin hadn't known how to feel, meeting his father. Sure, parents were fine - he supposed it must be nice, having people to care for you. Moomin certainly was excited at the news. Snufkin wished he could match his dear friend's enthusiasm.

He was worried, though, feeling a weight develop in him. Was he expected to talk to the other mumrik? Would Joxter ask him to come live with him or something? That certainly wouldn't happen. Snufkin just didn't know what was expected.

However, after his introduction, Joxter mostly ignored Snufkin. He assisted Pappa, agreed to have dinner, and was perfectly content to act like he hadn't just met his son. Snufkin thought he might be in the clear, but his hopes were dashed when the older mumrik waved him over to speak before he left.

“I'd like to talk to you tomorrow, if you don't mind.”

Snufkin couldn't think of an excuse to deny him a visit, so he just shrugged. “That's fine.”

“I'll be by in the morning.”

With a tip of the hat to Pappa, Joxter departed.

A few hours later, Snufkin went to his tent and mused over it all. It seemed that, in essence, nothing had changed. Rather unfortunate that there was some sense of obligation, however, for them to speak. Did Joxter intend to ask Snufkin what he'd been up to? Did he feel guilty somehow, not being informed or involved with Snufkin's upbringing? Did he think Snufkin wanted to know about him?

Well… it wasn't that Snufkin wasn't a little curious. He just disliked the idea that he  _had_  to be, had to want to get to know this person he'd never met, only because they shared blood. What a strange thing.

In the end Snufkin shrugged it off and went to sleep, wondering how the day would go.

* * *

The very next morning, just as Snufkin had put on his clothes and was gathering a pan to make himself breakfast, there came a scratching at his tent flap. Joxter was there.

“It's very early,” Snufkin said, his surprise a silent question.

“Well, I saw you were awake,” was Joxter's reply. “Figured there was no sense in waiting.”

“You saw?”

“I was in that tree,” he answered, pointing to a clump of trees not too far from Moomin House.

“Oh. I thought you had gone home last night.”

Amusingly, Joxter appeared both insulted and exhausted by the mere suggestion. He didn't even bother answering, choosing instead to head off in a random direction. He waved Snufkin along.

The younger mumrik followed, and eventually they both settled into a silence. It was not a very comfortable silence, but a familiar one to Snufkin. Many animals, such as rabbits or birds, had a special way of communicating when in groups. Though it may take time, a natural conclusion to the silence would eventually be found, and all would feel it natural and acceptable.

Snufkin had grown used to these sorts of moments with Moomin. The others were not so attuned to such things; they still spoke too early at times, or never ceased their chatter in the first place. Snufkin decided if he could care for nothing else about his father, at least Joxter understood the need for silences such as these, too.

Joxter had climbed into a tree upon their arrival to his chosen location, settling onto the lowest branch about five feet up. He lay on his stomach, stretching across the wooden limb.

Snufkin settled down among the roots of another tree close-by. He hasn't thought to bring his pipe, but his harmonica was in his pocket. He pulled it out and, sensing it would be acceptable, began a song.

He got through the entirety of that one and halfway into a second before Joxter finally spoke. “What is that?”

“A harmonica,” Snufkin answered easily. He got this question often while traveling. “It's a mouth-organ.”

“How did you learn?”

“I taught myself.”

“Why are your claws out?”

Snufkin blinked at the abrupt, seemingly unrelated shift in the topic of conversation. ‘'Pardon?”

“Your claws. Do you need them to play that thing?”

Snufkin looked at his paws. He had very small claws, with slightly dull tips. He had to scratch at trees and such to keep them from getting longer, for he did not want to harm a friend on accident or make some mistake while working with delicate things. “No, I don't. They're always like this.”

“Come here for a moment,” Joxter said, and waved one dangling paw.

Snufkin was wary, but curious. He put away his harmonica and moved to stand beneath the branch. “What is it?”

What occured next happened very quickly, and it took a moment for Snufkin to process. He saw Joxter's tail - longer and thicker than his own and covered in thin, black fur - curl around the branch. Next thing he knew, Snufkin was snagged and pulled up off the ground, and then he was seated on Joxter's stomach.

“Ah! What have you-?”

Before he could go on, Snufkin's paw was taken. Joxter was now lying on his back. He obviously had no fear of rolling out of the tree, and his expression remained somehow sharp and bored all at once. He examined Snufkin's paw, gripping it in one of his own.

Snufkin huffed, but took advantage of the moment to return the favor of inspecting his companion. Joxter's paws were, indeed, very different from his own. Snufkin had slightly-long fingers, with callous palms and rough brown fur on the back. His claws were small and dulled, and his thumbs were like Moomin's, flexible and well-suited for gripping things or using tools.

Joxter had very slender, very soft paws. His fingers were shorter, and from what Snufkin could see, he did not possess claws. His palm was padded, pale pink like a feline's, and so plush Snufkin doubted he'd ever done a day's hard work in his life. The thumb was also small and strangely placed; Snufkin thought it might be difficult to handle things with hands like these. It was no wonder Joxter had merely instructed Moominpappa on what to do yesterday, rather than fix anything himself.

That strange thumb pressed into Snufkin's palm, a little too hard, and Joxter's eyes narrowed. “Odd.”

Annoyed, Snufkin adjusted their grip so he could press a thumb into Joxter's palm in return, just as firmly. To his surprise, five long, curved claws encircled his hand threateningly. “Oh!” He pulled his paw away. “I see! Yours are retractable.”

Joxter flexed his hand again, showing how they unsheathed. The tips were very sharp.

In a flash, those sharp points hooked into the fabric of Snufkin's trousers. Snufkin flailed as Joxter moved him around, tail slapping the elder's knees. Joxter hooked one claw from his other paw into the topmost lace on Snufkin's boots, ignoring his son’s sounds of protest. The man wore a look of frustration. “How do you manage with these?”

“My boots?”

“So many laces. Don't they make it harder to climb?”

“I don't even climb all that much,” Snufkin grumbled. He was lying, of course - he quite liked to climb and lounge in high places. Well, it seemed Joxter did as well. It occurred to Snufkin that his relation to Joxter might actually explain some aspects of his nature, and his head was all mixed up with this new perspective. How many of his traits, which he had always believed came from his own experiences and inclinations, were merely inherited? Was the desire to climb a tree his own preference, or merely an instinct he satisfied?

Lost in his thoughts, Joxter managed to unlace Snufkin’s boot halfway before the mumrik noticed. He grunted a protest and kicked his leg, shaking off Joxter's grip. “What in earth are you doing?”

“I wanted to see what your feet look like,” Joxter explained. Snufkin saw his pupils, previously thin as slits, grow suddenly round with focus. He bat at Snufkin's dangling shoelace.

“Well, they're not so different from my hands,” Snufkin said. Giving Joxter a hard look, he pointedly grabbed his laces and tied them up again. As he did, he glanced behind him, where Joxter had his legs resting against the tree trunk, crossed at the ankles. They were bare, and looked very similar to his paws. “Do you always go without shoes?”

“Mostly. I own a pair of boots. Not foolish ones like yours.”

“What's so wrong with them?”

“They tie up all the way to your knees.”

“It makes them secure, and keeps the dirt and water out.”

Joxter's eyes had gone back to being half-lidded, and trained on Snufkin. “Do you hang about in water often?”

“I enjoy fishing. And swimming, sometimes.”

Joxter wrinkled his nose, looking displeased at the thought. It was a different shade than the tan skin of his cheeks, the same sort of warm red-orange as the autumn leaves around them. Would Snufkin's nose ever turn a different color? He tried to imagine himself with a red-orange nose, but the idea seemed too silly. It suited Joxter well though.

“Do you have the antenna?”

“Antenna?”

“Mymbles are a strange thing,” Joxter said. “They can look all sorts of ways. The Matron Mymble - your mother - has many, and had them with many sorts of folks.” He explained this with no judgement in his voice. It was a very different sentiment than Snufkin was used to, with those who spoke of the Matron Mymble. “She had antenna but I've noticed it doesn't always carry. Couldn't tell with your hat in the way.” He reached up and caught Snufkin's tall hat by its wide brim, pulling it away. “Scruffy though, aren't you?”

“Hey!”

“And small. Like that little spitfire - what was it… My? Yes, Little My. You must have both caught that one.”

“What do you mean, caught-  _hey!”_

This insane creature had just tossed Snufkin's hat aside and tried peeking under his coat. Absolutely fed up, Snufkin smacked his paws away and made a scornful noise. “That's enough from you! Keep your hands to yourself! Are you depraved or something!?”

“Mymble are often quite bald,” Joxter said, his answer frustratingly meaningless to Snufkin. Seeing his son’s harsh look, Joxter elaborated. “What I mean is, I wanted to see if you were more like her or me in that regard. Obviously your hands have fur, but a mymble can have fur on their hands too, or feet, and almost always they have tails. But I know the Matron at least was mostly without fur, and I saw many of her very small ones, and often their torsos are soft and bare and pink. So I was simply curious-”

“Curiosity is no excuse!” Snufkin snapped. He crossed his arms. “You're an odd sort, aren't you? Don't you know it's impolite and improper to go grabbing people, and swinging them up into trees, or pushing them around and trying to look at what's covered up?”

At least Joxter had the decency to look a bit ashamed. “Hmph. I figured, if I was your father, it wouldn't matter.”

“Well, it does. It might be one thing if I was a child, but I'm much too old for that.”

“Hm.” Joxter was quiet, thinking it over. Eventually he nodded. “You're probably right. Pardon me then. Would you like to get down?”

“Yes, I wou- ah!”

Joxter had once again grabbed Snufkin, claws snagging onto the fabric of his coat. Then he simply rolled to the side, taking Snufkin with him, and the mumrik was sure they'd both fall straight out of the tree. He closed his eyes, body tense, ready for an impact.

Instead, his feet were lowered onto the ground. “There.”

Snufkin opened his eyes. Joxter was hanging from the branch by his tail. It was curled around the wood and seemed strong enough to support the other man's weight. He was nearly upside-down, the claws of his bare feet digging into the bark, holding him steady.

“You'll have to forgive my missteps,” Joxter said with an odd expression. It was one part confused, the other reserved. “I've never been someone's father before.”

Snufkin paused while brushing off his hat and putting it back on. “Yes, well. I've never been anybody's son before. I don't know what to do, really.”

“So we have that much in common.”

“Seems we do.”

They stared at each other for a moment. Then Joxter said, “Go if you'd like. I'll be nearby for a few days still, helping Moominpappa. Then I head back home, to the opposite end of the valley. I stay in a grove there during the cold months. If you ask Pappa, he'll bring you. That would be fine.”

“I head off in winters.”

“Sensible of you,” Joxter said, and Snufkin couldn't tell if he was teasing or being earnest. This fellow was incredibly difficult to read.

Joxter swung himself back up onto the branch. From one coat pocket, he pulled out a fruit tart treat; they'd been offered to him yesterday by Moominmamma, and it appeared that he'd taken more than the one Snufkin had seen him nibbling on.

Snufkin debated on his next move. Should he go? Since he'd first been introduced to his father, he'd felt the urge to disappear and never see him again. Joxter was odd and hard to understand: too casual, too tall, with eyes that were too intense and a voice that was too… unknown.

And yet, that was the same reason Snufkin felt some compulsion to stay. He was honestly curious about the older mumrik. Obviously, they had many differences. He couldn’t help but wonder what, beyond their looks, might be the same. It was an odd thing to feel. Snufkin disliked the idea that, perhaps, it was merely due to some familial instinct that he wanted to become closer to Joxter. The idea of being compelled to act in a way unnatural to him, due simply to blood ties, was disconcerting. Then again… well, what was more natural than family? Where would he be without those who had created him?

Ultimately, Snufkin did not feel as if he owed Joxter anything. It had been Joxter’s choice to act in ways which led to Snufkin’s conception; so too had it been the Matron Mymble’s choice to share that intimate bond with him. In this moment, Snufkin could make his own choice: stay or go?

“If you insist on lingering,” Joxter murmured, “at least do something more productive than stare at me. What about that instrument from before? You played it well.”

Snufkin frowned at the mumrik’s choice of words - as if he hadn’t been the one to invite Snufkin to keep him company in the first place. He wondered, too, why Joxter would encourage music when he looked and sounded to be half-asleep already. His eyes were closed, head resting on crossed arms. He was still lying long-ways on the branch.

Saying nothing else, Snufkin sat at the foot of the tree. He pulled out his harmonica and settled for something aimless, trying to find the new song ringing inside of him. If he tried, perhaps he could uncover it and make sense of the tune.

Above him, Snufkin’s father listened.


End file.
